Aunt in Bikini - Sex Stories

Aunt in Bikini

... plummeting into my stomach. Why did I feel there was something wrong? "I ... I need to talk to you," Aunt Jean said, decidedly awkward, as though not wanting the conversation, but feeling it necessary. She lifted her knitted shoulder bag from where it hung by its long handle from the back of a wooden, ladder-backed chair, one of four arranged around the table. I watched her rummage in the bag, a souvenir from Jamaica, yellow, black and green stripes in chunky knit. "Would you like a beer?" she asked me after sparking up a Marlboro Light. "I might postpone the shopping. I could do with a white wine myself." Ignoring the question about a beverage, I asked, "Is everything okay, Aunt Jean?" My aunt sucked smoke into her lungs. She looked at me, her gaze impassive, unreadable as she blew the blue smoke towards the ceiling. "Let's have a drink," she replied. "We can go into the living room. There's something I need to talk to you about, Carl." She opened the fridge door, cigarette between her fingers. Jean reached in with her other hand and then handed a can of Stella Artois to me before going back in for the wine. I popped the tab and watched her, my mind racing, stomach heavy with anxiety. Jean poured a hefty measure into a long-stemmed goblet, gulped a mouthful, and took a drag at the cigarette. "Come on," she said, her head nudging towards the door to the hallway. "Living room." * I have since wondered that if the conversation hadn't taken place in the living room, with both of ...

... us on the cosy two-seater, then things might have been different. But it did go that way. We were both on the sofa, Jean's legs crossed, her initial pose all closed in, almost defensive, her thigh a barrier between us. Like I was excluded. Which is what Jean intended. To exclude me. That was her aim when she initiated that conversation. But sitting there with her legs crossed, in that skirt... All I could think of was how I'd love to touch her. I could feel the heat of her body and I could smell her scent, which, that day, was tobacco smoke laced around her usual perfume. I wondered how her legs would feel under my palms. Her thighs were enticing, the smooth calves such a temptation. Jean's nerve seemed to fail her when we settled down. She smoked and sipped wine while I glugged a few mouthfuls from the can. Silence for almost a minute. I somehow resisted the urge to touch my aunt. Finally she took a deep drag on the cigarette and leaned to the side to take an ashtray from the small table at the side of the sofa. Jean crushed the life out of the thing, smoke like dragon's breath through her nostrils. She gulped wine, placed the glass next to the ashtray, and then swivelled her torso to face me. She sighed and looked at me with what I interpreted as pity. I ran my fingers over the embossed pattern on the beer can, swallowing down the anxiety. "Carl," my aunt said, softly. I blinked but refused to look at her. She repeated my name, a hand on my knee forcing me to confront her. ...